


Hang on to Yourself, Chapter 7

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Character Study, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that the undercover mission's gone pear-shaped, will Sam get to Gene in time? Torture warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang on to Yourself, Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

> By basaltgrrl and me.

The pain.

The fucking pain in his fucking head.

Vague impressions. Yelling. Being dragged to his feet. More yelling. Gunshots and lights and being pushed, running, half-carried. Door slammed and tyres screamed. The van, he recognized, as he rolled across the floor and slammed up against the wall. A renewed explosion of sparks behind his eyes. An eternity or fifteen minutes of mad driving through the streets, punctuated by squealing turns and cursing. Carl at the wheel, Geordie and Frank and Pete in the back, no opportunity to open the doors and leap out even if Gene had been able to muster the strength and the force of will.

He passed out, or somehow time went by without him noticing.

Rough hands woke him.

Fingers digging in hard, dragging him stumbling from the van through a dirty grey door into a dark, dusty space that stank of fish and something worse, flashlights suddenly flaring, bouncing off distant walls and steel barrels piled twice man-high. The fucking pain in his fucking head. Geordie and Frank, holding him harder than they needed to, given that he was making no trouble. They each tied a rope around a wrist, focused and angry. Then they stepped back and hauled hard, and he was jerked upward, toes just brushing the ground, an involuntary sound of protest escaping him.

"That's good."

A match flared, and then an old-fashioned gas lantern. It cast shadows on Carl's gaunt face.

"Didn't want to be rich after all, Henry?"

Gene spat.

Carl turned his back, walked away, taking the light and the men with him.

***

Sam opened the door and stepped into the foyer of Barclays Bank, letting the door swing shut behind him. He could hear voices inside, accompanied by the occasional wail. He moved into the bank, his heels clicking on the marble floor.

The scent of blood, newly spilled, mingled with the smell of sweat. There was blood on the wall, the floor. It was smeared by a heel, or, perhaps, a knee, as if someone had stumbled or been sent careening wildly through it.

The abandoned cashiers' windows were on the left; there was a counter next to them with deposit slips and other papers, most of which had sailed underneath, making a new pattern on the marble. To the right there were chairs for eight people. Three of them were toppled like statues. There was a bleached-blond woman seated in one of the chairs, her handbag in her lap.

Ray was standing by the counter, talking with Chris and Annie. He looked across the room at Sam and strolled over.

“No weapon found, Boss.” He nodded at the woman. “If you want to have a talk, she's the one was held hostage before that one got shot,” he said, indicating the body on the floor. Someone had covered the dead man with a coat. “Mrs. Wendy Watson.”

“Get everyone else's statements then let them go. I'll take Mrs. Watson. And see that he gets to the morgue. These people have seen enough. Okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sam moved away. He smiled and held out his warrant card. “I'm Detective Inspector Tyler.” Sam could see she was shaken. “I'm sorry to intrude, Mrs. Watson,” he said gently as he put his badge away, “but I'd like to find the man who did this. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“No, of course not,” she replied quietly. She pulled her handbag closer. Her hand was trembling slightly.

He sat down next to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes ...”

He bent forward to hear what she was saying.

She started to sob. She reached into her bag and pulled out a tissue. “I'm ... fine, thank you,” she said firmly, dabbing her eyes with it.

“Why did he grab you, do you know?”

“I don't know,” she admitted, checking the tissue then crushing it in her hand. “It happened so suddenly and quickly. There was a lot of confusion. I think he rather liked making people frightened.”

“Can you tell me more about him?”

“He had one hand around my neck, a gun against my head. He seemed desperate, not a professional bank robber.”

“The person who murdered him has, I believe, killed several others. If he isn't stopped, the killing will continue.”

“But you're wrong, Inspector. He was trying to help. He wasn't like the other men.”

“In what way?”

“I could see it in his eyes.”

“You saw him clearly?”

“Oh, yes. Very clearly.” She closed her eyes. “Bullish and blond. Commanding. With a soft spot for women in distress.”

Sam straightened up in his chair. His palms began to sweat. “Damn. And he's forgotten that he promised to come home,” he said softly.

“You know him?”

“I'm acquainted with someone like him,” Sam replied. It seemed to satisfy her.

“I don't dare think about what they're going to do with him. One of the men--I think he was in charge--knocked him to the floor. Cracked his head. I can tell you exactly what he said to him. I'll never forget it. “You're dead.” Contempt for him and everybody else. Dangerous, that one.”

Sam tried to pull himself together. He stood up abruptly and looked over at Ray, who was nodding as he listened to a cashier. “Ray!”

Ray turned round, and walked over to Sam. “What's wrong, Boss?”

“We've got a hostage situation.”

Ray looked at him as if he'd gone mental. “Bloody hell!”

“The hostage is Gene.” Sam swallowed hard. “Reynolds took him. We need to get moving. Get Annie and Chris to talk to everyone on the street, organise door-to-doors. Someone must have seen them leave. Which way they went. Set up roadblocks. We've got to stop him.”

Ray stared at him, his eyes blazing. Sam glanced around the bank. Chris and Annie were having a word with witnesses, taking notes.

“Jesus, is everyone here just standing around!” Sam snapped.

Chris and Annie broke off their conversations and turned to look at him.

The surprise slid from Ray's face and his expression became sullen. “On my way, Boss,” he said, with an edge to his words.

Sam waved a hand at the door. “I need to--I'm going out for some air.” He walked off. “No, no, no,” he muttered, coming face to face with Jackie Queen as he emerged into the sunshine. The reporter hadn't wasted any time. The last thing he needed. “Oh, good,” Sam said, with a touch of irony.

“Just doing my job, DI Tyler,” Jackie replied, as she got out her notebook, the sunlight flashing off her perfectly painted nails. “Why don't you tell me something about the robbery? The shot that was fired, killing another robber? The hostage that was taken from the scene?”

“You're well informed, Jackie.”

“You know how it is. But, I've got a deadline to meet. You're looking for them now, aren't you, guns loaded?”

“We're focusing on the hostage, yes.”

“Who is it? Who's the hostage?”

He gave her a hesitant smile. “I can verify that he was the shooter.”

Jackie gave him a searching look. “Something's not right.” She softened her tone. “Just tell me what happened, Sam.”

He blinked at her use of his first name and pressed his hand to the back of his neck. Her eyes widened briefly as she waited for his answer. “That's not the way it works,” he murmured softly, dropping his arm. “Sorry, Jackie. We're still making inquiries. Just be patient and we'll have something for you.”

“Is DCI Hunt with you? There are one or two things I'd like to ask him.”

Christ. Sam shook his head, straight-faced and making an effort to sound sincere. “He's gone down South. Covering all the angles. He's due back in a few days.” His eyes swept the reporter's face but she didn't appear to be suspicious. He could only hope that she couldn't read his thoughts. Gene. Somewhere in the city. With blaggers who weren't yet privy to his secret. And would Gene's quick wit help him hang on until Sam could find him or would it get him killed?

*****

The police station's lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Sam and Ray exited, stiff and uncommunicative, neither one feeling like talking. Superintendent Rathbone was waiting for them in the doorway of his office.

“DI Tyler, DS Carling, my office now,” he said as he headed back inside.

“Every man for himself,” Ray muttered. They moved reluctantly into the room as if they were fish being pulled slowly on a line.

The Super stood behind his desk, the picture of himself glaring down at them from its place on the wall above his head. It mirrored the expression on his face. He indicated the two empty chairs. “Please close the door behind you and take a seat.” When both men were seated, he turned his attention to Sam and tossed a copy of The Gazette at him. Its headline was ARMED BANK ROBBERS ON THE RUN, and in smaller type below, Killer takes hostage. “Is it him, Tyler?”

Sam wasn't sure who him was. Gene? Reynolds? “Sir?”

Rathbone tapped his finger on the newspaper. “Is it Carl Reynolds, and his gang again?”

“Yes, Sir. And Gene is their prisoner. It should never have happened. But he's our priority--”

“I make the decisions about priorities around here.”

“Well, obviously, our duty is to Gene,” Sam challenged, getting to his feet.

Rathbone raised his eyebrow. “Sit down, Inspector,” he ordered, his voice cold. “We're all under stress right now, but that's not an excuse for insubordination. You don't talk back to me, and you do what I tell you. Do you understand?”

Bugger. Sam nodded. “Yes ... Sir.”

“That's good to hear.” Rathbone's eyes passed from Sam to Ray, then narrowed. “Carling?”

“Hell, yes,” Ray replied hurriedly. “I do what I'm ordered.”

“DCI Hunt walked into this office and asked for the assignment, with my approval. By doing so, he accepted the risk. With the eye of the press on us, our first job is to find Reynolds. I want that villain off the streets.

"Get out there and bring me Carl Reynolds. Don't let me down,” the Superintendent finished, giving them a wave of dismissal.

As they walked down the corridor, Sam seized Ray by the front of his shirt. “Whose side are you on, Ray?” he asked softly. “That stiff-necked, old--?”

“You don't have to ask.” Ray looked back at him, calm and unblinking. “I'm on his side--the Guv's.”

Sam dropped his hand, releasing him. “Okay. Right … I'm sorry.”

“Do you think he is dead, Sir?”

Rathbone's convinced Gene is already dead. A sudden squeezing pain struck Sam's heart. Sam didn't want to accept it, wouldn't accept it. And he wouldn't let Ray take it as truth either.

“He'll be all right. And it's down to us to see that he gets home.”

***

The worst thing was the conversation with Carl.

Gene thought of it as a conversation, later, mulling it over in his head, replaying and imagining other ways it might have gone. In his head it was the sort of thing that went down in Lost and Found, threats of violence and cigarette smoke and triumph in the end. Problem was, the roles were reversed. It was about Carl venting his rage, the threat of violence against Gene's person rather than the other way around. Which was fine. He would have welcomed the contact. It was the sort of communication he expected, given the circumstances, and his body was ready for it, thrumming with pain and urgency and the expectation of a punchup. But instead he got words, pacing, dark room, bright lights and the unending ache of his own shoulders and wrists.

"You." Carl's face inches from his own, those narrow grey eyes, the lined, gaunt cheeks. "Who do you bloody think you are?"

Gene pursed his lips, said nothing.

"I'm talking to you, Williams. Or whatever your name is." Carl stalked away, casting distorted shadows on the distant walls, fumbled with some items on a table. The clink of metal. The weird electrical stink of the floodlights they had hauled in and set up facing him, the peculiar background odor and the smell of his own fear-sweat, all of it together with the echoes of strange sounds in the vast, dark warehouse made him shrink inside of himself. Not in a Gene Genie sort of way, but like when he was a boy, when his mam had taken herself to bed leaving him downstairs with dad. That helped, thinking about what he did as a boy. Turning fear into rage. Stowing it away. Not hard at all to work up a little rage, just think of the blond woman's face, there at the bank, or how much these thugs deserved to be put away for good.

Carl loomed close again, showing Gene a knife. It was a bastard big blade, some kind of hunting knife. Made for slicing. "We'll make your life a bloody hell, man. What made you do it?"

"Bloke liked to hurt women," Gene slurred.

Carl snorted. "That's it?"

"Poor impulse control. Couldn't help meself."

The shape of Carl's eyebrows shifted wildly; the shapes of disbelief, rage, anger. How much there was to read in his unemotional, Germanic face.

"You--bloody hell, Henry, is that really your line? You're going to joke about this?"

"I never liked 'im."

Carl's face lashed out, caught Gene a blow with his knuckles and the hilt of the knife--a flash of white behind his eyes and he was afraid something might have broken. His cheek was numb with it, his eye blurry with tears.

"He needed to go," he mouthed, hoping Carl could understand his words. It was the truth about how he felt, of course, but not the whole truth. The moment Carl got that out of him he was dead.

Carl leaned in close, fisted his hands in the lapels of Gene's shirt and heaved him another inch off the floor. It would have been a physical relief were it not for the knife, the blade angled up against Gene's chin. "I thought we were on the same page, mate." Carl's voice was quiet, almost sorrowful. "I thought I could trust you. There's something more, isn't there, Henry? Something you want to say to me?"

Gene worked his tongue around inside his mouth, trying to taste if there was blood. Maybe. "Did you a favor," he croaked at last.

"I never saw this coming, and I'm a fair judge of a man. Thing is, I just don't see what this gains you. You're a puzzle piece, Henry, and I think there's something you might unlock if I can just figure out how to use you. I thought you wanted to be used; I thought you were mine. But..." He dropped his eyes, eased off his hold on Gene's shirt. "You're not."

"Yours as much as anyone's," he answered, and it was true as he didn't belong to anyone, at least in the sense Carl meant.

Carl gave him another look, at arm's length. His face wore its habitual lack of expression. "I almost believe you."

Yeah, and that's where he had Carl. He'd been convincing, as a criminal. It gave him an edge, one that he might be able to exploit enough to stay alive until Sam could find him. "I'm telling you, I did the right thing. Mackie was--"

"Shut it. Mackie was one of us."

Gene rolled his eyes. "Mackie was no team player. In it for himself."

Carl snorted in derision, made a grand gesture with his knife hand but didn't seem to have the words to continue. "You--I--I'm actually speechless, Henry. I'm genuinely at a lack for words in the face of your continued certainty of your own worth. You really believe you did me a favor, don't you? Are you this kind of nutter, rather than the yellow, squealing Judas you seem to be?"

"You think I turned on you."

"I know you did. Which is why I have you bound up here while I decide if you deserve to live."

"You don't know sodding shite, if you think Mackie was yours. Mad as a hatter. He was going to kill, and right soon."

Another snort of disbelief. "You can't show me that, Henry. You can't prove a thing as you conveniently removed him from the picture."

"Ask around, mate. Ask Geordie. Ask anyone if Mackie was a loyal bastard. They'll all say he was about as true as a crooked nail."

"What does that make you, eh? The fucking hammer what pounded Mackie home?"

Laughing made things hurt more, but Gene just couldn't help it, the chuckles burbling out of him. "Very like," he gasped.

"Oh, funny. This is rich." Carl paced away, fast steps, angry, then back again. "Fuck you. You messed it all up for me, Henry."

"You think that bank job was going to go your way, you're an even bigger idiot than Mackie."

Carl did a slow burn with his eyes, all menace and swagger as he swayed closer, frustration rolling off him. Gene matched him with the eyes, though it was passing hard to project anything with his arms going numb and his toes just brushing the floor. "I'll knock that attitude out of you," Carl hissed, "and you'll break. Sooner or later, you'll spill all you've got. If there's anything worth having in there."

He made a dismissive gesture. Geordie and Frank closed in, and there was no mistaking the meaning of their gleeful grins. "Oi, mate," grunted Geordie as he delivered a short punch to Gene's belly, "I don't care for the way you did Mackie."

Frank took a turn, fists thudding into Gene's flesh, and then Geordie delivered a slap to Gene's face that rocked his head back.

"Make a sodding noise, why don't you?" he whined. His pig eyes bored into Gene's, questing, questioning.

"I've seen your balls," Gene grunted. "Almost needed a microscope, but I've seen 'em. Don't know what there is to make a noise about."

"Fuck!" Geordie make an urgent, imperative gesture, and Frank turned to grab something from the table. Short lengths of garden hose, long enough to get some momentum, whistle through the air, thwack against Gene's ribs with stinging force. They worked themselves into a sweat, beating him, and after a time it was just one more noise, layered over the buzzing in his ears and the numbness of his wrists.

He eventually gave them some satisfaction, grunting or gasping at the blows. Geordie switched from the hose to a short length of pipe, and Gene's range of noises became broader. More interesting, at least to his own ears... probably to Geordie's as well, based on the bastard big grin on his face. Fuck. Harder to turn off the pain. Harder to keep from anticipating the next thudding impact, afraid of broken bones. Fuck, what was a broken bone to him anyway? They healed in time, didn't they? Tried not to think about people he had known; old Tommy, back in National Service, ankle healed crooked, permanent limp. But Frank and Geordie didn't seem to care about Gene's knees, nor ankles either. Just the ribs, the belly. Shoulders.

The pipe hit the middle of his chest, noise like a hammer against a melon, and he felt a pop. Struggled to draw another breath, wheezing like an asthmatic, like the old men chain-smoking down by the quay, didn't know it could hurt so much to breathe.

"Leave him. Leave him!"

The noises were scary, terrifying. The odd rasping echoing through his chest when he drew breath, the involuntary whine at the lightning stab of pain. "Hnnn, hnnn, hnnn," he went, trying to breathe slower, trying to balance on his toes.

It was a standoff, dark silhouettes against the floodlights, Gene pinned like a fly before them.

There.

Calming. Breathing a bit easier. Surviving. Chest pain easing, making way for the ribs, the wrists.

"What--" he gasped, tried not to cough. "Hnnn. What's next, sunshine? Break my nose?"

Carl's footsteps echoed, a counterpoint to Gene's labored breathing. He stopped a few feet away, produced a pack of Marlboro's, tapped one out and lit it. Yearning layered itself over the pain like a blanket. Gene grimaced, tried not to beg.

His resolve lasted only until the first whiff of smoke reached his nostrils. "Oi, just a drag, mate..."

Carl snorted, but held the ciggie so Gene could take a puff.

"Gonna leave you to think about things for a while, Williams," he said wearily.

"What do you--want me to--think about? Your lovely face? What to make for brekkie tomorrow morning? City's chances next year?"

"Whether you have anything to tell me. Any reason to keep you alive."

"Piss off."

"Well then. Gag him. Don't need him screaming the place down while we're gone."

They weren't gentle about it. Some kind of nasty, oily cloth, tied so tightly around his head his jaws started an immediate ache, making it almost impossible to get air through his mouth. The steadily building pressure of his shoulders, the burning fading to numbness in his wrists, where the ropes bit deeply, the layering of bruises over his ribs and spine, the ridiculous effort to maintain an airway through his swollen nose kept him aware and struggling even after the four men trooped out of the room, turned off the light and closed the door.

He imagined tearing himself free and racing off into the night. He imagined smashing his fist into Carl's face until it was unrecognizable. He replayed the shooting in his head, again and again, watching the hole appear in Mackie's forehead. Strange. So very strange. The way the light went out of his eyes. How slow it seemed. It was slower every time he imagined it, until he closed his eyes against the black of the echoing space and tried to think of something better.

Sam. The brown of his eyes, the ridiculous nap of his hair. The lanky length of him. The way his breath quickened when he stripped off his shirt. The curve of his arse--

He passed an hour or more reciting every swear word he could think of, and making up some new ones into the bargain. "Sheep-buggering lilly-livered cock-swallower" gave him some pleasure for a while.

He had to piss.

The sky grew dark, then black, outside the row of small, square windows high up on the wall. The air was chill. His sweat cooled and dried. He shivered, groaned, tried to take a little weight on his toes. It hurt too much to slump back onto his wrists. His chest throbbed where the pipe had struck him.

Sam. Oh bloody hell, Sam.

An hour or two later he pissed himself, absurdly pleased with the relief and the warmth of the wetness pouring down his leg.

***

 _Killer takes hostage_. Sam crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the bin. He leaned against the worktop, and sighed. He could hear the television, the news anchor summarising the late night news.

“Manchester and Salford Police have launched a major investigation to try to locate a gang of robbers who attempted to rob Barclays Bank. Police have refused to comment on a man, who has not been named, who disappeared during that botched robbery attempt, but they are stressing that--”

Sam slammed his hand down on the worktop. Christ, he needed a drink. He searched his cupboard, finding the unopened bottle of scotch at the back where Gene had stashed it. He took it out, pouring a small amount slowly into a tumbler, then tipped his head back and swallowed a mouthful. He drank steadily, pouring more whisky and taking shots.

What was left of the night was bound to be long. Sam paced, the drink in his hand, looking round the bed-sit, but he didn't really know what he was looking for. He felt worn out, sick. What had seemed entirely logical before the several shots of whisky now seemed irrational, a mistake. He had to find Gene, and, to do it properly, he needed to have a clear head.

He moved to the window. He squinted into the pane of glass, his left hand on the windowsill. He stared at the bottom of the street. Gene was supposed to be on a mission, but it had gone balls up; now, he was missing. Sam's gaze went past the two up, two down terraced houses and curry houses, to the city beyond. His eyes were drawn to a lone tower block, its windows lighted squares, rising up to the stars. “You're out there,” he said, softly. Could be anywhere. And he was on his own, suffering at the hands of Reynolds. Hang on, Gene. Hang on.

Sam turned, fighting tears, and saw the neatly-made single bed. He couldn't look at it without thinking about sleeping with Gene, and sex. The tangle of limbs, lubricated fingers. Teasing tongues. Knotted ties. Who's calling the shots … He got down on his knees, his fingers brushing the mattress. His head drooped and an animal noise tore out of him, the sorrow leaving him raw. He threw his glass, splashing the awful, flowered wallpaper with whisky.

“You were thinking about Gene, weren't you?”

Sam jerked his head round and jumped to his feet, his expression guilty. The girl from the test card was standing a short distance away, wearing her red dress and clutching her clown.

“Gene? Maybe,” he murmured. The clown's mouth was turned up in a knowing smile.

“He needs your help, Sam,” she said matter-of-factly.

Sam looked at the clown. The clown looked at him. It was simply a child's toy, but it was still staring at him. Suddenly, he was little Sammy Tyler, small and vulnerable, with nowhere to run. Bloody hell.

“Gene's not safe. But he's not afraid.”

Sam's heart knotted in his chest. “W-What's happening to him?”

“There's no escape, no way out. It's too dark and too cold.”

“Where is he?”

“Where rats pitter-patter over drums and leave tracks in the powder of bricks and mortar.”

Sam was confused. “Sorry?”

“In a long-forgotten place. A place of death and decay.”

She wasn't making sense. “Where?!” he yelled in frustration.

“He's very rude, isn't he?” she said to her clown. “Aren't we trying to help you, Sam?”

He heard the sound of the test card, the tone blaring from the television. The child was back inside it, playing a game of noughts and crosses. He closed his eyes tightly. He opened them again, turning away and crossing the flat in a few strides. He glanced back at the telly before slamming the door behind him.

***

Sam rounded the corner. There were lights burning in the squad room. Chris was seated alone at a desk, with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. His shoulders hunched, he had an arm wrapped around a file like a secondary school pupil who didn't want anyone to copy his work. Sam pulled up a chair next to him and sat down, his hands on his knees.

"I thought you'd gone home," Sam said.

"Hi, Boss. Never left." He sucked on the fag then crushed the end in the ashtray. "I've been thinking," he told Sam, giving him a smile. "I'm supposed to be slow. Mostly everyone makes a joke of it. I'm used to it. Reynolds, he's a proper clever bloke. So, I'm looking for whatever makes me smarter than he is."

Sam returned Chris' smile. "Excellent, Chris."

"Cheers. Only doing my job. Like you."

"How are you coming with your list of local properties? Did you find out anything about empty or abandoned buildings?"

"It's been tougher than I thought--there's loads, but I should have it by mid-morning. I'll give you the paperwork as soon as."

Sam put a hand on Chris' shoulder. "Go home. Get some rest."

"I will if you will, Boss."

Sam hesitated. She was there, and he didn't fancy another encounter. "As it happens, I plan to do some walking--and thinking. Like you."

***

An echoing bang jerked Gene to awareness and he made a noise, incoherent. It was morning, grey light pouring in the row of windows high on the wall. He heard voices echoing through the darkness, and then the click of a switch and the glare of the floodlights making his eyes burn.

"Good morning, sunshine," rasped Carl, somewhere out there past the lights and the tears flooding Gene's eyes.

Frank and Geordie were all gruff efficiency, cutting him down, moving him to a chair. His arms, unfeeling, his hands white and swollen, and he didn't even have time to get some movement back before they were tying him hand and foot to the chair. His shoulders began an ache that expanded in an instant to full-blown agony. Carl, grim-faced, took up a position directly in front of him.

"Who do you work for?"

"Who did you phone, that day at the bank?"

"Where did you go after the pub?"

"Where do your mates live? Got a wife?"

"Why'd you kill him?"

Gene let the questions roll off him, too far gone in the bliss/agony of not hanging from his wrists to care about the chair or the rope. Hunger made him cramp, but it was so much less worrisome than the disturbing ache in his chest, shot through with stabs of pain. He'd slept. He would sleep more now, if they'd let him, if he wasn't so thirsty, if the haze of smoke in the room didn't keep making him twitch and jerk and hurt. He could ignore questions with the best of them, thicker skin than the average motorbike jacket, and there was a reason--an important reason--to keep it all to himself.

Yeah. Wait. It was--

"We'll find out who you've worked with, Henry." Carl leaned down, at eye level, icy and serious. "Don't think for a moment we won't."

"Piss off." He licked his dry lips.

"You live and work here, man. You're a Manc; other Mancs are bound to know you, they'll tell us all about you and then where'll you be?"

"Could it be worse than having to look at your face all day? Ugly as a donkey's arse."

Geordie gave him ten seconds to sweat, then pried his little finger up from its death grip on the chair and snapped it back.

Gene screamed, short and involuntary, then snorted breaths through his nose so fast and desperate he sounded like a beast, like a panting dog or--or what? Something else, something far away, something stronger than this.

"Fuck, Henry. Why don't you just tell me what I want to know?" Carl sounded despairing, almost. Genuinely sorry for having to hurt him.

Gene shook drenched strands of hair out of his eyes, blinked fiercely until Carl's face came into focus. "'S my life," he growled. "Keep your filthy mitts out o' it."

"Hold your life in my hands, don't I? You won't give me a word to spare it?"

Gene snorted quick breaths, ignoring the lights, the smells, the stinging layers of agony and discomfort. A vision of Sam, running in the door, guns blazing. How much longer could he put them off with stubbornness and vinegar? Why wasn't Sam here yet? Hadn't he said, at some point, something to Sam about warehouses or docks or some such. Should have led him here already.

Why. Why the bloody, stinking hell wasn't the picky pain bastard here already?

"Carl," he gasped. "I did my best. Couldn't stand him anymore. Tried to--help you. I did."

"I always thought it was a front. Suspected it."

"No. It was me. Just--me."

"No one's as good as that. Why aren't you working for yourself?"

Gene tried to focus. How was he supposed to answer? "Piss off. Work for you if I want."

"If. If you work for me you answer my questions. There are things I need to know before I leave Manchester. Things you need to tell me. What are you trying to set up here, mate? Why stay with us for two weeks? If you were a rat, would've turned by now. I just don't understand you."

"Why--'re you still here then?"

Carl raised an eyebrow. "Came here to do some jobs. Prefer not to leave before I'm done."

"More--than just--the bank job?"

"Yeah. There's money for the taking, and Manchester's no London."

"What's that mean?" Gene felt a vague wash of righteous indignation.

"Well." Carl sat down in the chair facing Gene's, hands on his knees. "Coppers haven't exactly been hot on our trail, have they?" There was a snide satisfaction to his tone, the kind that made Gene want to tell him just how close the local constabulary had been all along. The desire to wipe the grin off his face, replace it with shock, anger, maybe even fear. But fear of what? One heavily pummeled DCI tied hand and foot to a chair, hoping his DI would be riding to the rescue any moment now? Grow another one, Hunt.

"Piss off. You don't know bleeding Manchester."

"Starting to wonder how well you know it. You're such a puzzle to me. Maybe you really are a smart man who made one very stupid mistake. But--" he fished out a fag and lit it, eyes hooded as he took the first, deep drag, "if there's nothing more to you, this is it. No reason to keep you alive."

Carl reversed the cigarette, cold eyes calculating as he scanned Gene's face. Gene hoped for another puff of the fag, the momentary joy of a nicotine rush, but Carl flipped the cigarette and pressed the lit end down against the tender skin between Gene's thumb and forefinger.

"Fuck!"

Laughter. Harsh, crowlike. His own hiss of pain, the chair rocking as he twisted against the ropes.

Carl's huge hand lashed out, a hard blow to the face, lights exploding behind Gene's eyes. His face felt numb and distant. There were voices, a chatter that he couldn't distinguish from the roaring in his ears. Approaching footsteps, shadows moving, and then...

"Oi! Fancy meeting you here, Detective Chief Inspector!"

Gene stared up with astounded disbelief into the face of one Michael Kenney, small-time crook; put away on occasion for theft, or assault, and on at least two occasions put away by Gene Hunt, himself.

***

"We need to snuff him, boss, and we need to do it now."

"Oi. Who makes the decisions around here?"

"Let's dump him in the canal and get the bleeding fuck out of bleeding Manchester!"

"E's a valued member of the local police, mate. They're gonna tear the town apart, looking for him. You'd best act fast."

Gene rolled his eyes and croaked, "Michael. I'll put you away too, you say another word."

"Shut it!" Geordie lashed out, gun in hand, and he wasn't holding back. The explosion of pain tossed Gene's head to the side, rocked him in the chair. Somehow his ear hurt worse than anything. Maybe because it hadn't been touched until now. He would have held a tender hand over it if he could. Instead he shook it off, swearing under his breath, rolled his head around on his shoulders until he was sure it was there.

"The bleedin' DCI!" whined Geordie on a rising note. "They've had us under surveillance all along! They're probably on the way here right now, with dogs an' everything!"

"Shut yer bastard big mouth," Carl commanded. "If they knew where he was they'd have been here yesterday. They'd have nicked us at the bank. They don't know, not yet anyway. The question remains, do we kill him now or do we run?"

Frank coughed. "You asking our opinions, boss?"

"No. Let me think."

He walked, the length of the room and back, finishing one cigarette and starting another. Gene watched the smoke rise, coiling upwards and expanding into ghostly layers in the wan light from the row of windows. It was all starting to feel a bit distant, now. Cold. All the pains were a blanket wrapping him up, protecting him from the men, from their noise and their smoke. What he wouldn't give for a flask of whisky.

"Blaggers," he muttered. "You think you'll get away with it." His own voice sounded strange, sluggish and garbled.

"It's different now. Before, he'd just be another small-time crook turned up dead in the canal. Now, he's important. They find him, they'll be after us like fleas on a dog. They won't let us go, they find him dead. But, we leave him alive and he tells them everything he knows. No doubt about that. So." Carl stared into Gene's face, calculating. "We cut him up small, put him somewhere they'll never find him."

***

Sam looked around him from his perch on the edge of the table. Annie sat with a notebook on her lap and a pencil in her right hand. Chris was biting his bottom lip. Ray stood in the middle of the CID room, his chest puffed out like a cockerel giving another cock (Sam) the impression he was a larger size. The other two Sergeants were settled in chairs, their sleeves rolled up and their feet pushed out in front of them, like twins. Cigarettes dangled from their fingers, identical strands of smoke rising from the fags and swirling around their heads like fog.

“Good morning,” Sam began.

“Who says?” someone mumbled in a low voice.

Sam glanced around, surprised, but everyone was staring at him innocently in silence. He could hear his watch ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Look. DCI Hunt'll come out okay.” He hoped desperately that he was right. That time wasn't running out. That Gene was still alive.

Annie smiled at him; it was warm and friendly, and something hollow inside of him was filled, relieving the tension. Sam smiled back at her and leaned forward. “Now, what have we got? Ray, you go first.”

Ray moved through the room like he was strutting through a hen yard. He took his place next to Sam. “Everyone has been interviewed, and those witness statements have been sorted and analysed. All movements have been accounted for and verified.

"All seven blaggers, including the Guv, were in Barclays. They all had guns with them. Two of the men made customers in the queue lay on the floor. Two others stood in front of the entrance doors to keep anyone from making their way in or out; the heavier of the two, the Guv, was different from the rest. Never made a fuss, was cool, even when the deceased went ape-shit and he had to shoot him through the head.”

“Thank you, Ray. Annie?”

The constable glanced briefly at her notes. “Interviews from the street revealed there were two vehicles, a brown Morris Marina, number plate GLG 341K, and a white panel van. We have a partial number plate; it was registered here in Manchester.”

“Probably nicked here, and all,” Sam said. “Do we know what direction they headed after they left the bank?”

“West on Chapel, Sir,” Annie replied.

"Went to Salford, possibly Trafford Park ..." Sam concluded.

"Must have done."

“Good work, Annie. Chris, you've been phoning round to check out those abandoned buildings. Do you have that list for me?”

“Right here, Boss.”

Chris left his chair and held out the pages. His eyes were wide, watching Sam as if he was expecting him to do something extraordinary. Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Knackered. He was too knackered. He rubbed the stubble on his chin then took them, glancing down at Chris' notes. “Well done,” he said absently.

Sam scanned the list, making it to the second page, then got no further.

Fisher's Warehouse  
No. 6 Dock, Manchester Docks, Salford

Brick and timber, damaged by fire in 1971. Partly demolished. Where rats pitter-patter over drums and leave tracks in the powder of bricks and mortar. And Gene had said Reynolds had him patrolling the docks. “Fisher's,” he repeated slowly. “My God. Bingo!”

“I prefer poker myself,” Chris responded.

“Bloody-Nora. It's the Guv, isn't it? You know where he is,” Ray answered. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

Adrenalin rushed through Sam's bloodstream, mixed with relief, happiness. Fear. “Number six dock.”

"What if you're wrong?" Ray asked.

Sam drew back his shoulders. "I'm not." And if he was (please, no), then it was too late any road. Reynolds wins and Gene's dead. “Tool us up, Ray! Get armed backup! Now!" He pulled on his jacket.

I'm coming to get you, Gene.

***

Sam made a right, burying the accelerator pedal into the Cortina's footwell. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He turned right again, insanely, to the Salford Quays, barely touching the brake pedal, the car's engine roaring. He approached Fisher's car park, his mind hanging on to hope. He saw the entrance and slammed his foot on the brake, the tyres spinning. It wasn't hidden from view, but it wasn't easily seen from the door of the warehouse either.

He and Ray climbed out, guns drawn, and watched as Chris, Annie and the others arrived in a Zephyr along with several panda cars, their lights flashing but sirens silent. Everyone piled out, guns and torches ready.

“Carl Reynolds,” Sam said. “Watch him, he's dangerous. But our top priority is getting Gene back. Alive. We keep our heads clear, we can do this. Come on.”

Sam jogged across the car park, his breaths short puffs of air. He was so close to finding Gene, and, yet, not close enough. He approached the building quickly but carefully. The battered white van was parked next to the warehouse, squeezed into a passageway between it and another building. Sam shone his torch into the ginnel, but both it and the vehicle appeared to be empty.

There was no sign of life around the warehouse. Sam looked up. A row of windows. Fixed, dirty. They wouldn't be seen by anyone inside. A grey door. The only way in or out.

“Boss?”

Sam stopped and turned. Ray looked back at him grimly, dark circles under his eyes, showing the strain he was under. Sam placed his arm on Ray's sleeve. “You ready?”

Ray nodded. They moved forward, slipping swiftly inside, torches shining. It was cold. Sam shivered. Stale, dusty air mixed with lingering cigarette smoke caught in the back of his throat, making him want to cough, but he swallowed hard, keeping it back. He hit something with his boot, and, as he bent over to look, realised that it was a dead rat. He stepped over it and kept moving. Let him be alive. No celestial voice answered him; in fact, there was no voice at all, until he heard,

“We cut him up small, put him somewhere they'll never find him.”

“Go on, cut his throat.”

Jesus. Suddenly, everything was going wrong. Hairs stood up on the back of Sam's neck. “Go! Go!” he shouted, terrified. He dropped the torch, gripped his gun firmly in his hand, and started running. Footsteps thundered behind him. Then there were bright lights everywhere.

There he is!

Reynolds froze, startled, then Sam heard him laugh. The knife blade flashed as he pressed it deep against Gene's neck. His eyes burning, Sam saw trickling blood. Reynolds grinned.

No! He couldn't let him win! Sam fired, the blast hurting his ears, making them ring. The blagger grunted, then stumbled before crashing to the floor in a knot of limbs. Sam was aware of frenzied shouting, the crack of gunshots, a bullet whizzing past his left ear. He dropped to the floor, on one knee, waiting for more shots--but there were none.

He saw Ray hurrying toward him. “Ray, radio for an ambulance!” Sam yelled. He stood up, staggering a little.

Gene. Tied to a chair, drenched with sweat.

Bastard. Fucking, bloody, bastard Reynolds.

Gene's pale skin smeared with blood, slashed, bruised. Circular burns. Breath whistling through his broken nose. His left eye partially closed.

Bastard.

Sam's arms and fingers tingled. If he didn't breathe, he was going to suffocate. Breaths. Take deep, slow breaths, Tyler.

His fingers fumbled at the knots of Gene's bonds. “Gene, it's me,” he choked out.

Gene didn't answer. Didn't move. He sat there, slumped forward, chin resting on his chest.

Please, don't die! Oh, God, what was he going to do?

“On its way,” Ray told Sam as he returned. He stood there, at Sam's side. “How is he, then?” he whispered.

Sam didn't answer. He didn't know himself.

Sam slipped his hands over Gene's large swollen ones, holding on to them. “Gene?”

Bile burned in his throat, and he swallowed it down, but it didn't go away, setting his stomach on fire. His mouth filled with saliva. Don't be sick, don't be sick.

Sam leaned into Gene and stroked his head. “Gene. Talk to me,” he said into his ear.

“Nnnngh,” Gene groaned, his mouth misshapen by a swollen cheek.

Thank you, Jesus. “Gene, it's Sam.”

Gene's fingers tugged weakly at his sleeve. “'Time … is … it?”

Why the bleeding hell was he asking about the time? Sam squinted at his watch.

“'Took you … so long?”

Something slammed into Sam's chest. Breaths. Take deep, slow breaths. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

He thought of Gene, sitting there, the look in his eyes as he realised that no one was coming to save him (not Sam), that he was going to die on his own in a cold, abandoned warehouse.

“Not … your … fault. Aggghhh ...” Gene sucked in a wet breath, coughed, blood flying from his lips. “Made a … right … dog's breakfast … of ...” He went quiet, dropping his head. His good eye closed. Stayed shut.

“Fuck, Gene--”

“Nnnngh,” Gene groaned, a tear running down the side of his nose.

Sam reached out and grabbed Gene gently by the shoulders, pulling him forward into his arms. His body was warm against Gene's. He hugged him as tight as he dared. Not far away, he could hear the urgent wail of the ambulance siren. “It's over. It's going to be okay. Almost time to go home,” he said softly.


End file.
